Summer on the Mountain

by Rosemarie Naramore

  She sighed again. What if she couldn’t produce an artwork that truly captured the rugged beauty of this place? What if she couldn’t give Gwendolyn the very thing she had been sent to retrieve? What if she couldn’t rediscover her muse, her love for vivid color and the creativity of painting from one’s heart and soul?

  What if?

  Chapter Two

  The next day, Summer woke early. She remained in the cozy bed for several moments. She could scarcely believe she was on a mountaintop, and with the entire summer stretching out before her.

  Of course, there was the matter of the painting, but she cast the worry aside for now, deciding to take some time to both enjoy and familiarize herself with her surroundings before picking up a paint brush.

  She took a quick shower, and while standing under the stream of water, heard the ringing telephone in the bedroom. Turning off the water, she snatched a towel off a nearby hook, and then padded to the phone. “Hello,” she said cheerfully.

  “Well, what do you think of the place by now?” Gwendolyn asked. Summer heard the note of disdain in her voice.

  “Oh, Gwendolyn, it’s everything I imagined it would be and more. I still can’t believe I’m actually here.”

  “Well, believe it,” she said in measured tones. “And better you than me. Any ideas on what you might paint?”

  “I’ve just arrived,” Summer said with a chuckle. “I need some time. But, I’ll do my best to get started ASAP.”

  Gwendolyn sounded pleased to hear that, and the two signed off, with promises to keep in touch.

  Summer fell backward onto the bed with a contented sigh. A whole day in the Great Outdoors awaited her, and she could scarcely wrap her mind around it. What should she do today?

  She rose from the bed, toweled off, and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. She slipped on sneakers, and then dashed to the kitchen for a quick bowl of cereal.

  Gwendolyn hadn’t been kidding when she’d assured her that the kitchen was well-stocked. A large pantry was filled from top to bottom with every manner of food stuff, and she realized she wouldn’t need to make a grocery run for weeks.

  After dropping her cereal bowl into the sink—she’d wash it later—she strode out back to the screened-in porch. Immediately she spied a cluster of fishing poles propped against a corner wall. She hurried over to inspect them, her eyes widening with pleasure.

  She wondered, should she try her hand at fishing? She had fished only once in her lifetime—during her camping trip with her father.

  Summer recalled having relished the experience, though she hadn’t actually caught a fish. But she had enjoyed standing on the lake bank, waiting with anticipation for a fish to strike. She remembered her father explaining to her that fishing was less about the big catch, and more an opportunity for quiet contemplation. She had liked the sound of that even as an eight-year-old child.

  With a grin, she decided to try her hand at fishing and extracted a pole from the bundle. Suddenly, the thought of putting an innocent worm on a hook caused her to wince, but then she spotted a tackle box at her feet. She propped the pole against a wall, picked up the tackle box, and dropped it onto a chair. She opened it, recognizing the tiny hooks with colorful, feathered enhancements from a picture she’d seen once. They were fishing lures. Pleased with her discovery, she secured the tackle box, picked it up by the handle, grabbed the pole, and then dashed out of the cabin and outside to the lake.

  She was delighted to find the property boasted a dock that stretched out several yards over the crystalline lake. She trotted to the end, dropping onto the wooden planks and carefully laying the pole down. She sat for a moment, studying the slender rod, and decided she had a fairly good idea how the thing worked. She carefully reached for the line, noting a hook was already tied on and secured to a loop at the end of the pole.

  She studied the hook, but then decided to remove it and replace it with a lure. She just wasn’t prepared to deal with a worm at this point. She snipped off the hook with a pair of scissors she found in the tackle box, and chose a particularly colorful lure. After she tied it on the line, she held it carefully between two fingers. She scanned the lake, then turned her attention back to the pole.

  She rose from her sitting position and then carefully dropped the line into the water. It landed only inches from the dock. That didn’t seem terribly efficient to her, so she pulled the line back. She studied the pole again, struggling to remember how the thing worked.

  Finally, she smiled as she remembered how to cast. She pulled back the bail on the reel, reared her arm back, and tossed the line into the water where it landed with a resounding plop. Success!

  She sat down on the dock, shed her shoes, and dangled her feet into the freezing cold water. She gasped. The water felt too cold and she pulled them out, tucking them beneath her. Suddenly, she felt a tug on the line and she jumped up, pulling at whatever had a hold of the lure. To her consternation, the line snapped. With a sigh, she tugged additional line away from the fishing reel, attached a new lure, and then cast again. She sat for a half hour or so without feeling any kind of tug on the line. So much for quiet contemplation, she decided. She wanted to catch a fish!

  She rose and carefully reeled in the line, securing the lure at the end of the pole. She glanced along the lake bank. She saw a massive log protruding out over the water some distance away. She decided to see if the fish might be biting over there.

  Snatching up the tackle box, she hurried to the log and carefully walked the length of it, feeling as if she were walking a balance beam—albeit a slippery, mossy one. With outstretched arms—a pole in one hand and the tackle box in the other—she managed to keep her balance, and finally, reached the end of the log. There she found herself teetering slightly. She set the tackle box down, and then disengaged the lure from the end of the pole.

  She cast the line carefully, afraid she might tumble into the water if she wasn’t watchful of any sudden moves. Several minutes passed and she found herself missing the wide, relatively even surface of the dock. But suddenly, she felt a tug on her line. She gasped in surprise, set the hook with a tug, and then began reeling in.

  Whatever she had managed to catch fought with a fury and she imagined she must have hooked something huge. She continued to reel in the line, pulling back occasionally to gain the advantage over the uncooperative fish.

  Finally, she spied the gleaming fish only a few feet away and she grinned. Suddenly, it occurred to her she hadn’t a clue how she would extract the hook from its mouth once she did manage to get her hands on it. Deciding to cross that bridge when she came to it, she continued reeling it in.

  “I’ll need to see your fishing license.”

  The decidedly masculine voice from behind startled her, causing her to spin around and lose her balance. She struggled to remain upright, but her right leg jutted out perpendicular to her body, just before she fell backward into the lake.

  Her heart gave a jolt when her body hit the freezing cold water. She had thought the water was shallow here, but found she was sadly mistaken as she was submerged briefly, before reflex kicked in and her legs followed suit. She propelled herself upward and broke the surface with a gasp.

  “Are you all right?” the ranger asked, standing a few feet out on the log and watching her with a frustrated expression on his handsome face.

  She took a deep breath, and opened her mouth to speak. Unfortunately, her teeth chattered and she couldn’t form any words. She simply nodded and began moving toward shore.

  “The pole!” the man exclaimed, prompting her to glance around. She spied the rod on the verge of sinking into the icy depths of the lake and she attempted to reach it. It gave a sudden jerk.

  She made an awkward lunge for the pole, snatched it up, and felt another tug. The fish was still on the line. She did her best to swim to shore, her limbs virtually frozen, and her technique ungainly with the taut line tugging at her. With relief, she felt the rocky lake bottom beneath her feet and she
began trudging out of the water.

  The ranger dropped down from the log and met her on the bank. He grasped the pole, efficiently reeled the fish in, and then removed the hook from its mouth with practiced flair. He released the sleek, silver fish and Summer watched it slip into the water, and then swim off with the flick of its tail.

  The ranger turned his attention to her then. “I’ll need to see your license,” he repeated, passing her the pole.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. She was soaked, frozen to the bone, and the man was asking about a license. What license?

  She wrapped her arms around her body. Her teeth chattered as she met his steely-eyed gaze. She shook her head uncertainly. “I don’t…”

  “You need a license to fish these waters,” he said curtly, eyeing her with displeasure. “I’ll have to issue you a citation.”

  “But, I’m fishing on private property. I didn’t realize I needed a license to fish on private property.”

  “You’re actually on my private property,” he said crisply, checking his watch. “Regardless, this is a public lake, so you need a license to fish it.”

  She swallowed over a lump in her throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “By law, I can confiscate your pole and issue you a citation for trespassing.”

  “No! You can’t!” she cried. The pole didn’t belong to her. How would she explain to the Lawtons if this ranger took one of the family’s fishing poles? And as for trespassing, she hadn’t known she was trespassing.

  What a minute, she thought. This was his land. Next to Gwendolyn’s property. Oh, good grief. He was Jarrod, Gwendolyn’s son.

  Summer noted the hard glint in his eyes. He took the pole from her, bent to prop it against the log, when suddenly, his eyes widened in shock. “That’s my pole!”

  She swallowed again. “It is?”

  “What’s your name?” he demanded, eyeing her as if she were a criminal.

  “Summer Windham. I’m staying over there,” she said wanly, directing him to the nearby cabin.

  He watched her doubtfully. “Try again,” he muttered. “That cabin belongs to my family.” He snatched his radio off his belt.

  “What are you doing?” she cried. “I haven’t done anything wrong—at least not on purpose. You have to listen to me.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” he said with frustration. “I’m calling for assistance.”

  The fact was, he’d just received a call about a poacher having been spotted several miles away, and he needed to get there. But, there also remained the reality that local law enforcement had been dealing with a rash of burglaries on the mountain, and he suspected this young woman might be involved. The proof was in the pole she had apparently stolen from his parents’ property.

  “Who are you calling?” she demanded shrilly.

  “A deputy.”

  She hugged herself miserably. “But I didn’t do anything.”

  He watched her dubiously and nodded toward the pole.

  “I didn’t steal the pole,” she insisted, “and I didn’t know I needed a fishing license.”

  “Ignorance of the law is no excuse. Besides, I suspect your law breaking on this mountaintop includes a good deal more than fishing without a license.”

  “What?” she cried, her still chattering teeth making it difficult to speak. “I just got here yesterday. Remember, I saw you at the lookout point.”

  His eyes narrowed and she saw of a flash of recognition. “Doesn’t prove anything,” he said, glancing at his watch.

  “Please, if you must, give me a citation, but don’t call the sheriff’s office.”

  The man shook his well-formed head, refusing to respond. He raked a hand through his sandy blond hair, his blue eyes narrowed in concentration. He spoke briefly into the radio, and Summer listened miserably as, despite her protests, he called for a rural deputy to come and, presumably, arrest her.

  “I haven’t done anything!” she cried, still shivering. “Call your mother. She’ll tell you!”

  He watched her speculatively then. “What has my mother got to do with this?”

  “She invited me to visit the cabin. I’m…” She abruptly clamped her mouth shut. If Gwendolyn wanted Leonard’s painting to be a surprise, she wasn’t sure how much to divulge to the couple’s son. “Call her. Please.”

  “I don’t have her number with me.” His eyes narrowed. “My mother wouldn’t send anyone up here without telling me first.”

  “But…” She shook her head and quickly relayed the number to him. With a frustrated sigh, he dialed on his cell phone. Unfortunately, he didn’t have phone service so far out in the wilderness.

  “No service.” he muttered, laughing without humor. He knew there wasn’t cell phone service lakeside. Cripes he was preoccupied, he realized.

  “But you must know I’m telling you the truth. I know your mother’s number! I work for her!”

  “Anybody could know her number,” he said reasonably.

  “You didn’t!” she charged, now hopping from one foot to the other to stay warm. If she didn’t get inside a warm shower, and soon, she suspected she might develop a summer cold.

  “Look, Rick Sanders will be here soon. He’s a deputy who works the rural patrol. He’ll sort this out. I just don’t have the time right now.” He had the good graces to appear apologetic, but she wasn’t buying it.

  The man gathered up the pole and tackle box, glanced from the pole to Summer with a chagrined look, and then indicated she should follow him to his Ford Explorer, parked in the drive in front of his cabin. She hadn’t realized how close the man’s cabin was to her fishing spot on the log—or to his folks’ cabin. She silently scolded herself for her stupidity.

  At his vehicle, he cast her another weary glance, finally taking note of the fact that she was practically freezing to death. He strode to the back of his truck and pulled a blanket from a storage container. “Here.”

  She took the blanket from his outstretched hand, grateful at least for the warmth it provided as she wrapped it around her shoulders. “Look,” she said, “your mother invited me to stay at the cabin. In fact, I’m doing her a favor. If you could just listen to me.”

  His radio crackled, and he snatched it off his belt again. He stepped away and she heard him speak. “I’ll be there in twenty.” He leveled his gaze at her. “I’m sorry. I don’t have time for this. I really don’t.”

  Summer glanced around furtively and considered making a run for it. And then she realized the absurdity of that notion. He’d no doubt catch her and definitely have her arrested. She took another stab at reasoning with him. “Look, as I said, I didn’t realize…” she began, but was interrupted by his radio again. She clamped her mouth shut. She was getting nowhere fast.

  She stole a glance at him as he spoke into the radio, noting he was as hard and rugged as the terrain around them. No wonder he lived in the forest. Clearly, he fancied himself some sort of mountain man. She shot him a hostile glance then. “If I catch a cold…” she muttered.

  She turned away from him, actually glad when the sheriff’s car pulled up. She wasn’t only chilled to the bone—she was chilled to the marrow.

  Jarrod spoke briefly to the deputy, and then with a frustrated glance at her, strode toward his awaiting vehicle.

  The young deputy approached her. “Let’s see if we can get this sorted out,” he said, smiling kindly.

  Summer began explaining who she was and that she had permission to be at the cabin next door. She pleaded with him to call Gwendolyn.

  To her relief, the deputy mentioned he knew Leonard quite well. He walked with her to the cabin and followed her inside. There, he placed a call to Gwendolyn and managed to reach her. He spoke to her briefly and then passed the phone to Summer. She began telling her friend what had happened.

  “Summer, slow down. I can’t understand you.” Gwendolyn said with concern.

  From between still chattering t
eeth, she explained to her that Jarrod had found her fishing and had called the deputy.

  “He what?” her friend cried with a gasp. “Okay, try to be calm. Let me talk to the deputy again. We’ll get this straightened out.” She groaned dramatically. “Oh, Summer, I’m so sorry.”

  After learning she was living at the cabin with Gwendolyn’s permission, the deputy smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry about the mix-up,” he said.

  “I tried to explain to that … that forest ranger that I was staying there with his mother’s permission, but he refused to listen,” she said through still chattering teeth.

  The deputy gave her a sympathetic glance. “I hope you don’t catch a cold. You fell into the lake?”

  She nodded.

  “Water’s still mighty chilly,” he commented with a wry smile. “It’ll warm up some soon enough, but now… brrrr! Did Jarrod fish you out?”

  “No,” she said testily. “He was more concerned about fishing out the fish on the end of my line.”

  “I’m Rick, by the way,” the clean-cut deputy said with a grin, his bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “And to be fair to Jarrod, he’s a good guy, a friend of mine, actually. Not especially talkative, though. Too, he’s got a lot going on right now with all the poaching happening on both private and federal lands. And he knows we’ve been dealing with a string of burglaries at the cabins around the lake. He probably assumed you were involved.”

  “He refused to listen…”

  “What he lacks in social graces, he makes up for in job ability. He’s your neighbor, you know,” he said, quirking a brow.

  “Don’t remind me,” she said with a long suffering sigh. “Don’t remind me.”

  Chapter Three